


Rebellious Archivist

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Not repeating quests word for word, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Out of order questing, Slow Burn, Snark, Spoilers, Start of the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's seen his share of stories, but never has he seen one written by so many hands, all except by the protagonist. </p><p>Deven Trevelyan is quiet, mindful, and his come-hither smile never gives more than a gentle tease. Dorian finds as the time goes on and the world crumbles around them, this rag-tag team of misfits orbit around a singular star with a gentle word for everyone. This is Dorian's archive of information from the mouths of all who bask in the light of their Herald.</p><p>That is until Dorian realizes their gentle Herald swallows dragon blood and rampages through enemies like a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afflated

When Dorian had first met the lad, it was under dire circumstances. Dorian had found himself on the run with the snapping jaws of the Venatori right behind him and a closed gate slapped before his face. His howling did little to gain the attention of those inside, and it taken a fireball or two before the wooden blockade was thrown open.

If it hadn’t been so urgent that the current situation be attended to, he would have stopped to admire the view. Two large and scowling creatures sprung through the gate, both blond with eyes flashing and armor gleaming. It was something right out from one of his childhood tales. Dorian had been quick to warn them of the approaching mages, and the first blond with furred pauldrons turned to the other, his face darkening like a storm cloud.

“Get the people to safety,” the second one said, his eyes locking on Dorian, “and tell Cassandra to meet me at the trebuchet. Go!” The first blond snapped his head in a nod and disappeared like a barking whirlwind, sword glinting with anger.

The second one stayed and stepped up to Dorian, hand out as if offering a treat. “Are you all right?”

Dorian blinked and scoffed at the amber eyes that watched him, “Perfectly, if you ignore the fireballs.”

“Of course.” The other placated. “I would have your name, but it seems we’re a little pressed for time. Here, to the Chantry, we shall cover your escape.”

“My hero.” Dorian sniffed, but he was not about to argue and made a dignified dash toward the gate and up to the Chantry. The people around him had gone mad with fright and terror, the fireballs and rocks hurtling ever closer to their homes. Dorian couldn’t rightly disappear into safety and leave these people to the slaughter.

With a sigh, Dorian yanked on his staff and turned toward the fight. He cleared the way for some of the villagers, stuck between fallen rubble and debris, then turned and blocked passage for any Venatori that had slipped through the guard. It was a long haul and with no lyrium left from his escape, he was draining out fast.

He fought his way forward, determined to get to the gate  _again_  and jump into the flame to assist the firing trebuchet. He was stopped by a struggle caught out from the corner of his eye. A Chantry robe swirled and a man cried out in pain. Dorian turned to spy a mage with a blade of lightning in his hand, pierced through the Brother’s robes.

Dorian lunged forward and brought down a smash of cold, knocking the mage off and with another push; the caster was thrown back and impaled upon a piece of shattered wood. The Chantry brother collapsed and Dorian knelt beside him. The man shuddered in fear at the sight of Dorian’s staff, but Dorian gripped his shoulder and shook him gently.

“Don’t be a fool, I’m here to help.” Dorian groused. He pulled the man up as a crash from the trebuchets behind him echoed through the mountains. “Come, I will get you inside.”

“The Herald!” The Brother cried, his throat dry with pain.

“He will probably survive this a bit better for wear than the rest of us. Come on, now, don’t dawdle.” Dorian knew he would have to hurry to get the Brother inside, before he bled out. He pressed a hand to the other man’s side and winced as the Brother hissed from the pressure.

They hobbled up toward the stairs, mindful to avoid any of the fighting that erupted around them. In their crippled dash toward the Chantry, a blur of armor and blond hair charged past them and up toward a few of the homes.

“He stills fights,” the Brother murmured, “even after…”

“Hush.” Dorian grumbled. “Now’s not the time for reflection. Up we go!” The Brother struggled against him and he slipped twice on the snowy stairs. Dorian’s hand was slick with blood which loosened his grip. They were through the doors and the Brother gasped in surprise. Dorian looked up to see both blond men standing before him once again.

“He fought off one of the mages.” Dorian offered by way of explanation. The man in pauldrons frowned and shook his head, but the other’s face softened with pity. He stepped forward, but Dorian already had the Brother adjusted and drifting down into a chair. “Brave man.”

“Foolish,” the Brother croaked.

“Herald.” The first blond man called. “We’ve been pushed back. What time you may have bought us with the trebuchets have been snatched back by that beast. We’ve nowhere to run.”

“There has to be something, Cullen.” The second one murmured, amber eyes browning with concern. “We can’t leave the people to die.”

“Better we die fighting than with our tails between our legs.” Cullen, if Dorian had heard correctly, snarled. “Ferelden or not, we should at least go down with dignity.”

Dorian felt gentle fingers on his naked shoulder and he turned to find the Brother grasping at him. Worried, the mage neared the Brother and waited, listening. “Tell them.” The Brother gasped. “I know of something that may help.”

“Excuse me.” Dorian stood and the arguing blonds turned to him. He cleared his throat and pointed to the Brother, “ – we may have a solution.”

Immediately the pair turned on him and the Brother took a ragged breath. “There is a passage. You wouldn’t know it, unless you took the Pilgrimage in the spring, as I have…” A wet cough bubbled up a touch of blood colored the Chantry man’s lips.

“What are you talking about, Roderick?” The Herald stepped forward and Dorian felt Roderick stiffen on the chair. He neared the Brother and kept a shoulder lightly between him and the Herald. Andraste’s chosen or not, the Brother had suffered enough.

“There is a way out and I… I may lead you there.” Roderick sat up and Dorian swept in to assist the man in standing. The Herald pinched his lips and sighed heavily through his nose before he gave a tight nod to Cullen behind him.

“Take him.” The Herald commanded. “Get our people out of here.”

“Inquisition!” Cullen cried to the full Chantry. “Follow Chancellor Roderick, hurry! Out the back end and down through the tunnels!” The people that remained scurried around Dorian. They retrieved their things and threw them about, hustling to escape. A roar crashed overhead and the Chantry shook with weight and screams of the retreat.

Roderick was a slow walker, but Dorian would bear him.

“And what of you?” He heard Cullen’s voice echo softly behind him. There was a heavy silence, even if the din of the people running around them filled Dorian’s ears. He turned back to look over his shoulder, mindful of Roderick’s head.

The Herald stood with his back to Cullen, head raised and shoulders squared. Even through the leather, Dorian could see that the man was tense and coiled to leap. Cullen exhaled shakily and stepped away, his shoulders slumped.

“If we are to have a chance – if  _you_  are to have a chance – let that thing  _hear_  you.” Cullen came around Dorian’s other side and then slid up to take Roderick’s other arm. Between them, the Chancellor was raised and hobbled out through the back end of the Chantry, led around through the lower passages and spirited away like the shadows.

They had made it out through the underside of the Chantry with little trouble. The shrubbery that Roderick had warned them about had been wasted away by the winter’s cold and dried out to shattering sticks. The mountain behind Haven proved a challenge; Dorian and Cullen forced to hook the Chancellor’s legs up and carry him over the worse of the rocks.

“Oh, Maker…” One of the Templars had waited for them, but now he stared out over the edge of Haven and his mouth dropped in disbelief. “Wh-what is he  _doing?_ ”

Dorian turned with Cullen and peered out to the valley below. There stood the Herald, his companions gone from his side (probably escaped to safety if the man’s previous concerns were anything to go by), and the demon Magister upon him.

The dragon gleefully pounced from behind and screamed. Horrified, Cullen stilled and trapped Dorian with the Chancellor held aloft, immobilized by the sight of his leader alone against the enemy. “Is he mad? He can’t –”

“Ser!” Another Templar appeared with his bow tight in his hands. “We’ve made it over the other side. Shall I release the signal?”

Cullen was silent for a beat and Dorian feared he would have to slap the man, but it was needless. Cullen lowered his chin and took up Roderick with renewed effort. “Fire away, Templar.” The arrow was lit and shot above them, the flame whistling as it went.

“He was a good man.” Roderick murmured, tired. “Despite all my protests, he never raised his voice or spat at me, like so many others.”

“Now, now.” Dorian hushed him again. “Conserve your strength. Then you can tell him afterward.”

“If he survives…” Roderick gasped painfully. “If he survives, Andraste have mercy, what I did…”

“He would forgive you.” Cullen growled under the weight of the Chancellor. “He always has.”

Roderick looked up to Dorian, his eyes fading. “Tell him I’m sorry. That I only… if he is the  _true_  Herald…”

“What did I say?” Dorian interjected playfully, even as his voice cracked with his struggle. “You can tell him. If he’s as stubborn as all the storytellers say, then he’ll waltz right out of there with nary a scratch!” Cullen leveled a look his way, but Dorian ignored it. He wasn’t usually the optimist of any group, but this batch of drooping flowers was taxing on his mental state.

The night drew on and the walk was tedious. Ledges where hidden away by snowbanks and uprooted trees. The people around them slopped along heavily, their steps unsteady and weak. Their brontos huffed in the cold and stood as windbreakers for the traveling village, but it didn’t temper the cold that bit at their bones.

Roderick was fading fast and no amount of healing from the alchemist or surgeon made any difference. The man had already set himself to die and so he would. Dorian could only make sure he was warm and safe when he did so. They broke for camp further into the mountain range, swallowed up by the peaks and hidden away by the forest around them.

It was very nearly morning when a young lad appeared by the fire, a strange hat placed upon his head. He paced the circle of the fire, his hands rubbed together and his fingers red from the effort. “Cold, cold,  _cold_. Why is it so – oh! This is insufferable! Andraste’s ass – damn dragon couldn’t leave me a scorched patch of skin for  _warmth_?”

It was such an odd affair to see the boy mutter to himself so, but he had brought the attention of those around him to his mutterings. Cullen stood from his place on his bedroll and took a hesitant step forward. “Cole –”

The boy’s hand raised and pointed out to where they had slithered in from, “There.  _He’s_  there.”

Cullen and the Seeker (what was her name? Lissandra? No, no,  _Cassandra_ ) bolted in the direction of the boy’s finger and Dorian was no wiser on the action than he was two minutes ago before it started. It was only when he heard Cullen and Cassandra’s voices crash through the silence that he knew.

“He’s here!”

“Thank the Maker!”

Roderick chuckled brokenly and sighed. “Blessed we are under Andraste’s gaze… he’s survived.” Roderick’s hand wobbled up and Dorian snatched it from the air, pained by watching the Brother’s effort to move. “You shall tell him, won’t you? That I… all that I said. I am so very sorry.”

Dorian kissed the Brother’s fingers and nodded, though the man could not see them through his closed eyes. “I shall, Brother. Rest now, and be at peace. The Maker shall take you to his side.”

A soft smile took over Roderick’s face. “You are… Andrastian. A Magister of Tevinter?”

“You should see the hat tricks I do at parties. They’re a riot.” Dorian teased gently. A small laugh escaped the Brother, but his eyes fluttered under his closed lids and his hand grew lax in Dorian’s grip. He drew no more breath and faded into death.

“Now,” Dorian murmured to the darkness, folding Roderick’s hand over his robed chest. “To see this man who has inspired all into this mad venture.”


	2. Interosculate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets a small taste of what lies behind that pretty face.

Their Herald had been delivered to them, back from the depths of fire and terror, and he promptly passed out on a cot once Cullen had released him. Dorian watched from his place at the corner of the tent across from the commotion, the healers and surgeon fussing over the prone man as if their prattling would resurrect him.

Mother Giselle had finally shooed them off with a firm hand and sat next to the Herald to offer him peace in his unconsciousness. It didn’t take Dorian long to find how all the pieces linked together; the stories from his soldiers peppered the information here and there. The Herald had been a prisoner, taken into custody by the Seeker Cassandra and the Spymaster, Leliana. Cullen was their commander and Josephine was the Inquisition’s diplomat.

The small group of advisors had crumbled into disarray at the arrival of their Herald. The shouting was off and on, with small triggers sending the whole group into a verbal spat that rivaled that of Dorian’s parents when they had too much to drink. It was a miracle that the young man was able to sleep through it at all, in his armor and doused with old sweat.

He slept straight through the morning and well into the next night, greatly agitating his people the longer he slept away his recovery. By the middle of the second night of their escape from Haven, the whole camp was a basket of flea-ridden cats just waiting to bite the next unfortunate person. Dorian couldn’t get more than two words out of most people because of his “Tevinter” smell, but he finally landed a bite in the form of a hairy dwarf with a massive crossbow.

“Being a Tevinter gets you as far me, Sparkles? Don’t know if I should be charmed or offended.” Varric teased. Dorian didn’t dignify the comment or the nickname with an eye roll, though he wished to do so. He placed down his mug of hot broth and gracefully sat beside the dwarf on the bundle of items wrapped tightly in leathers.

“You seem to be the one most informed about everything and everyone.” Dorian stated plainly and handed the mug off to the grateful dwarf. “It seemed best to make friends with the last person to sell out his business.”

Varric laughed at that. “Very true. And what, dare I ask, would you like to know?”

“His name, for one.” Dorian replied with a tick of his chin toward the unconscious Herald. “So many titles and nicknames fly around, but it seems a miracle to actually know his true name.”

“Trevelyan.” Varric answered through a sip of his mug, his voice muffled. “Deven Harland Trevelyan. Or so he says, and that middle name was a right pain in my ass to learn.”

“Trevelyan?” Dorian murmured thoughtfully. “Hmm. We might be related.”

Varric nearly spit into his mug. “You’re shitting me. Seriously? I don’t think that would bode well for our Inquisition.”

“Oh, yes.” Dorian snorted delicately. “It doesn’t take much to turn a nose up at an evil Magister, imagined or not. Even so,” the mage waved his hand lightly in dismissal, “I believe it’s a distant relation. Too many ages past for me to actually remember.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Varric chuckled. “You could very well be family, what with the grand entrances you both pulled. Deven came straight out of the Fade and you with an army of mages and an archdemon at your back.”

Dorian flashed Varric a grin, “The bloodline does enjoy a good show or two, I dare say.”

Before Varric could retort, a commotion caught his eye. Across the fire and in the other tent the Herald stirred. Mother Giselle shifted in her seat next to him and spoke softly as the young man sat up with a pinched expression.

“He doesn’t look very happy, does he?” Varric muttered with a sigh.

Dorian raised an eyebrow, surprised by the comment. “I don’t imagine anyone would be, what with a good knock to his head and his pride.”

“Tell me about it.” Varric swallowed. “You wouldn’t know it, but the man’s steaming right about now.” Curious, Dorian turned back to the Herald, but could see very little in the way of anger upon the man’s fair face. As Trevelyan shifted in his cot and straightened his back, Dorian realized what, exactly, the dwarf was hinting at.

Trevelyn’s broad shoulders were stiff and jerked as he moved. His finger gripped the cot and his knee, with his face pinched and tight lipped as Mother Giselle attempted to soothe him. The Herald’s amber eyes closed and his chest inhaled slowly, but Dorian could not see a single inch of the man’s body relax at the effort.

“Is he violent?” Dorian questioned Varric as the Herald left his cot and paced away from Mother Giselle.

“Not regularly.” The dwarf answered cryptically. “Hell, Josephine usually flips her shit first before Deven does, and that’s saying something.”

“Indeed,” Dorian murmured. There had been no more talk that night, as Dorian watched the people rally around their Herald, their voices held high in the chill of the night’s wind and the mountains rang with faith and renewed strength.

A very odd man, indeed.

: :

The trek through the mountains and into the fortress of Skyhold had numbed Dorian’s limbs and infuriated his sensibilities. He knew very well what he was setting himself into when he ran off from his homeland and into the wilds of the South, but nothing truly prepared him for the weather, or the rough-necked ways of its people. They thought little of bathing, or even changing into a clean set of smalls, and the thought just sent Dorian reeling.

When the fortress had been taken and the people thrown into its open and protective space, Dorian made a great effort to find a secluded area of the castle. Tucked away between the opening floor of the rotunda and the noisy top floor with birds, Dorian found a nice little corner warmed by sooty books and a strip of sunlight that glittered with the dust.

From there, he witnessed the strangest thing. Most, he knew, when power was handed to them, they would be eager to embrace all that came with it: fame, control, and unbending hunger for more. He watched as the Herald was offered such a power, a sword that represented all that the Inquisition would be, and he waited. Dorian waited to see the man hold the sword out and proclaim his strength, his righteousness, and his authority to lead.

Instead, Dorian saw as the man hesitated. The sword stayed in his hand, but his gaze searched through Leliana’s and Cassandra’s for fear or doubt. When Trevelyn found none, _then_ , Dorian thought, _then_ this man would raise his sword and claim all in the light would be his; but no. The young man stood before his people, a meager crowd of survivors, and held the sword to his chest, the blade a gentle kiss to his nose.

A man of prayer or a man of humility – Dorian felt too uncomfortable with the image to stay and find out which it had been. He left the open space and disappeared inside the castle, hasty to be away from it all.

He quickly set about making himself useful. Leliana, the Inquisition’s Spymaster, took to him with little question. Dorian wondered at what she knew of him, since she never probed, but thought it best not to ask. She left him with books and bags of scrolls that they managed to save and Dorian was all too familiar with the task and happy to sort through them.

Soon, an empty journal bound in pale leather found its way into his hands. Relieved to have something to fill with his discoveries and inquiries, Dorian stashed away the little thing and brought his small library to order. Andraste knew the Templars wouldn’t know what to do with so many books.

“I’m glad to see you’re settling in.”

Dorian felt a spark of alarm shoot up his spine at the river-rumbling voice behind him. He knew it, and a flash of the Herald – the _Inquisitor’s_ – face filled his mind. Dorian continued to sort through his books, his fingers gliding over the spines and titles as he verified their place upon the shelf.

“Marvelous, isn’t it? How things can just jump back to normal after an archdemon flies down and kicks you in the head.” Dorian griped, his hands flying out to correct a few books from their places. “What was that? You thought this was going to be easy? No! I was just hoping you wouldn’t stomp us out like an ant-hill, that’s all!” Dorian snorted and placed his books away, hands clapping clean. “Sorry about that! Archdemons like to crush, you know!”

When he glanced over his shoulder at the Inquisitor, he nearly laughed outright at the dazed look that had covered the man’s face. Instead, he teased, “Dear me. Am I speaking too quickly for you?”

This earned him a smile, “No, no. I was distracted, that’s all.”

That had been different, but Dorian continued on ahead. “Distracted? My wit and charm do have that affect from time to time, yes.”

“Do they?” Trevelyn laughed. “Well, I certainly don’t mind being ensnared.” _Oh no_ , thought Dorian, _don’t do that, my dear boy. You might just have me like you._ Dorian squared his shoulders and shook his head.

“You’re a fool, you know.” Dorian told him with a flick of his finger. “Taking on this Inquisition and all its problems.”

“Someone had to,” Trevelyn countered. “I was a bit tired of waiting around. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a go.”

“Tell me that after your dragon dance partner has stepped on you.” Dorian laughed, intrigued by the banter. “Now, have you really come by just to check on me? How charming.”

“I noticed no one else had, aside from Leliana.” Trevelyn shrugged his shoulders and made a small sideways glance toward the stairs that led up to the loft of cackling birds. “Everyone else seems too frightened to step away from their comfort zone.”

“And I suppose if anyone is to be the hero, is should be you?” Dorian scoffed.

“If it’s a hero you would like to have, of course.” Trevelyn replied with a tick of a grin that flashed his teeth for a moment. Dorian would not be had; surely, he had played this game too many times. The lad was young, foolish, and knew nothing of the game he played. Dorian would make it so.

“ _I_ won’t need saving, my good man.” Dorian stepped around the Inquisitor with a confident heel. Those amber stones followed Dorian and brought the Inquisitor’s body to turn with them, not once allowing his back to be in Dorian’s view.

“I do wonder, though.” Dorian inquired softly, his eyes traveling along the length of the man before him. Nothing moved in his search, as Dorian expected. Most would draw and curl away from his questing gaze, or others of his lifestyle would puff with pride at the inspection.

Not this man. He stood still and the only thing that shifted was his brow as it narrowed over his eyes. His hands remained behind his back, a soldier’s stance with his heels held apart. H seemed to never present a challenge, but wasn’t one to push about. Curious creature, this Trevelyn.

“Wonder at what, Pavus?” The Inquisitor prompted. Distractedly, Dorian wondered at how he had learned his name. _Probably the dwarf, as he was the only one to ask._

“Where you shall lead this Inquisition. These people have all brought themselves to anchor on your good-will and strength. Can you weather such a storm?” Dorian asked seriously, his tone had hardened away from his teasing. This caught the other’s attention and Trevelyn lowered his chin to Dorian.

“I can’t say how I affect those who are connected to me,” Trevelyn replied diplomatically, “Only that I hope not to lead them astray.”

Dorian sniffed with a small smile. “I see. Well, time will tell, and all that. Congratulations on being titled Inquisitor, by the way. I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job.” The grin that he was rewarded with set a flutter of childish glee in Dorian’s chest and he hurried away before he would be caught in the maelstrom of knee-jerk reactions.

Honestly. It wasn’t as if he was a child any longer.


	3. Pyrohoric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian tries to peel the pages apart as he reads.

He was a peculiarity, this Deven Trevelyn. It was only a month into their entrance of Skyhold and the young man had _yet_ to stop running. Dorian watched as he dashed from one end of the courtyard to another, stopping to talk to Templar, a soldier, a wandering mage, or even just a villager or two that had been caught up in the whirlwind of chaos.

Now and again the boy would fly up the stairs two at a time to get to Leliana and he would set all the spare mages that were researching into a giggling fit. Dorian could only shake his head at the young man’s antics. He wondered if the creature was oblivious to the havoc he caused in the minds of females or if he knew and reveled in it. He would not be the first boy to do so.

It was nearly the first week into their second month when Dorian found himself in the presence of their esteemed Inquisitor once more. The man looked a bit disheveled; a new scar marked his lip and was still puckered in an angry red. His amber eyes remained the same, just as cheerful and just as clear. Dorian stood from his chair and met the Inquisitor in the curving walkway, patient.

Trevelyn huffed, amused. “What?” The young man glanced down at his casual wear and then brought his gaze back up to Dorian. “I know it looks stupid, but for the moment, it’s all I have.”

Dorian chuckled, “Does my gaze unnerve you?”

“When you’re dressed fashionably better than I, yes.” Trevelyn teased. “I’m still looking for my old clothes, but I’m half convinced Josephine tossed them out to claim they had perished in the fire.”

“Oh dear.” Dorian touched his lips with a hand. “Where they that bad?”

“There may have been an odd purple pant in there or two, I must admit.” The smile that took Trevelyn’s face was igniting and Dorian hard fought to keep a matching one off his face. Even so, Trevelyn’s crooked grin fit his face; his jawline sloped to one side. It was then Dorian noticed a bit more of the boy’s features, a broken nose that healed a bit to the left, another splattering of scars along his chin and sideburns (probably from shaving, poor thing) and a crooked tooth behind his right canine.

“What an exciting life you lead,” Dorian stated, for more than obvious reasons. “I’ve watched you gallop from corner to corner and I must tell you, it’s absolutely exhausting.” Dorian shook his head and leveled the boy with a sour look. “Why don’t they come to you, hand you platters of food and feed you? With all that you’ve done for them, you must deserve it.”

Something flashed behind the Inquisitor’s eyes and darkened them, but it was gone just as swiftly as it had come. Dorian felt it a small victory to get more than the usual good humor out of the man. He smiled to himself, pleased as Trevelyn scoffed with a darkened grin and shook his head.

“No, better I come to them, so that way I may escape just as easily.” Trevelyn exhaled, his eyes still avoidant of Dorian. “If they all came to me with their problems, then my locked door would be a poor show of character.”

“I suppose so.” Dorian nodded his head. “Now, there was a reason you had stopped by with me. Out with it, Inquisitor.”

“Ah, right.” Trevelyn cleared his throat. “It has been some time since I last check in, and I wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind coming out with my group for a while?” Dorian was innately thrilled to see that the tips of the Inquisitor’s ears had reddened considerably. There wasn’t a clear blush on his face, but Dorian would take what he could get.

“Is that wise?” Dorian asked lowly. “To be seen running about with a Tevinter mage?”

Trevelyn snorted with a brief flutter of a laugh. “Could they tell you’re Tevinter? Do you proclaim it at the top of your lungs with every step, or wear a sign for it? And being a mage does not make you Tevinter.” The man retorted the last just as Dorian raised his hand to argue.

“True, on most accounts.” Dorian bowed his head lightly. “I merely ask… there have been a few sideways looks from your company in my regards.”

“Is that so?” Trevelyn’s gaze narrowed and he instinctively glanced away at a passing Templar as they made their way down the spiraling staircase. “They haven’t been mistreating you, have they? Just because they’re Templars doesn’t mean that makes them any better than mages.”

Dorian stuttered at that. “Excuse me?”

“Being a Templar doesn’t excuse them from being human. Or polite, for that matter.” Trevelyn explained heatedly. “They have weapons and not magic, but that makes them no less dangerous or innocent.”

“Are you defending the mages, Inquisitor?” Dorian flashed the young man a weak smile. “Who would have thought?”

Trevelyn sighed and drew his head back, his hand twitching at his side. “I have multiple cousins, all whom I love in varying degrees, that are members of the Circle – or _were_ , I suppose – at Ostwick. My second eldest brother is a Templar and Aaliyah after that is a mage.” Trevelyn’s head came back down and brought along a scrunched nose with it.

“So you know well both sides of the argument.” Dorian murmured. “I do believe I heard you were the youngest… of how many, precisely?”

“Too many.” Trevelyn answered with a red face. “I have three older brothers, then two sisters, and finally, myself.” Dorian whistled softly at the number and chuckled when Trevelyn ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“And I also hear, from a reliable source, that you were offered to the Chantry?” Dorian teased. Varric had made a passing mention to Deven Trevelyn’s fate and the reason for the unfortunate man’s presence at the Temple of Sacred Ashes when everything had gone to pot.

“Offered, they call it?” Trevelyn muttered with a shift of his heel. “Charming. No, actually. I was… given no choice. Elric, the oldest, was to be head of the family. Leonard was the Templar. Oscar became a merchant.” Trevelyn sighed and ticked of his fingers, “Aaliyah is a mage, but she was brought home after the rioting, and Lorelei is to be married by the spring.”

“They gave you no choice?” Dorian questioned. “It seems the others were given one.”

“The others were not born last, to a fickle mother or an avoidant father.” Trevelyn snipped. The man inhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders lightly. The diplomatic smile was back in place and Dorian watched as the mask of polite amusement took control of his features. Like clockwork, the lad was back into fighting form, poised, polite, and attentive.

“You do that quite well.” Dorian observed. He continued on over Trevelyn’s look of confusion. “The mask. You switch in and out of it with grace. You’ve had practiced. You may have done well in the Chantry.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so.” Trevelyn countered. “Not if Chancellor Roderick was anyone to go by.”

“The man spoke of you, you know.” Dorian interjected. The memory of the broken Brother and his weak pleas to be forgiven had not left Dorian’s mind. Despite not knowing the Chancellor as well as his peers, the man had been sincere in the end, and even the smallest slight from the Inquisitor was unwelcoming.

“He did?” Trevelyn asked politely, the mask firm.

“He said he was sorry.” Dorian spoke, his gaze probing as he searched for the young man that had been teasing with him just moments before. “He asked that I tell you.”

A small thing, slight at the corner of the Inquisitor’s eyes softened. “He was a good man. Followed his faith and defended it.”

“Are you not of the faithful, Inquisitor? Odd, if you _are_ Andraste’s Herald.” Dorian prodded with his arms crossing over his chest. It seemed the wrong thing to say, because the mask snapped back into place and that enigmatic smile shaped Trevelyn’s lips.

“So they tell me.”

: :

They were taken out to Crestwood for Dorian’s first time. The constant and dreary downpour had instantly dampened Dorian’s mood, but he would muster up his valiant nature if only to keep up with the others of their party. It seemed Solas was a usual companion alongside Varric and Blackwall and it showed in how the party fumbled working with Dorian.

The first time his Walking Bomb spell went off had been a hilarious moment, if not an alarming one. To be truthful, he hadn’t expected their leader to go charging head first into a fully armored and gigantic Berserker, but there he went, sword at the ready. Blackwall kept the other minions at bay, away from their Inquisitor, and pinned them artfully between himself and Varric’s rain of arrows.

Dorian supposed that left Trevelyn in his hands, not that the Herald appeared to need any assistance. He kept the armored Berserker on their toes, swinging his broadsword with fluid pulls of his arms. At one point Trevelyn had nearly taken the legs right out from under his attacker, but the boots had proved too sturdy. A mage had escaped Blackwall’s stalwart guard and slipped up behind the Inquisitor.

Dorian wasted no time gripping the creature in a fume of his spell and releasing it as the mage stumbled away, closer to his companions. The explosive smoke had startled Blackwall into tumbling backwards toward Varric and the Herald had ducked his head with a glance over his shoulder. When he had seen the splattering of remains over the ground, Dorian briefly wondered if he was to be reprimanded for his hasty detonation.

The Inquisitor had laughed and then choked on it as he rolled away from another swing of the Berserker. Within moments, Trevelyn stood in front of Dorian, defensive stance strong and patient. There was a moment for them as the Herald flashed Dorian a quick grin. The blade of their opponent came down with a whistle and Dorian brought a barrier to flare over Trevelyn’s body.

The Inquisitor shown blue for a moment and as the blade struck, it briefly bounced off. With a wicked grin, Trevelyn lunged forward and pierced the end of his sword through a slip in the armor, and dragged the Berserker down to his knees. A crack of ice from Dorian’s staff and the Berserker was entombed. Trevelyn laughed and drew out his blade with a flourish, showering pieces of ice all along the ground.

“I didn’t take you for the type to revel in another’s death.” Dorian spoke as the Inquisitor stood away from the broken pieces.

“I never understand why people don’t think I can fight.” Trevelyn muttered with a sour grin.

“Probably that pretty face of yours.” Varric teased from behind, his crossbow clicking as she was put away on his back. “Fools them into thinking your some sweet maiden or some shit.”

Trevelyn snorted and leaned on his sword. “I highly doubt that. Blackwall out ranks me in that regard by far.” The tease was followed by another grin shot in Blackwall’s direction and the bearded man flared his nose with a twitch of his beard.

“Don’t you start, boy. I already told you no.” Blackwall answered with a huff, and then lightly shoved at the Inquisitor’s shoulder while he walked past him down the hill. Trevelyn shook his head and followed, in his face the clear intent to continue to tease the other man.

Dorian blinked down to Varric and the dwarf laughed out right. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“That our Inquisitor is a bit of a… flower?”

“I think he called himself a fruit cake when we had our proper introductions.” Varric snickered. The dwarf followed along after the first two and Dorian frowned with curiosity. The dwarf tilted his head, “Solas actually brought it up once while we were at the Storm Coast. Caught Deven staring at Bull for a bit longer than necessary.”

Dorian snorted. “Fitting, I suppose, that he would be charmed by others such as himself.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” There was an odd look to the dwarf’s grin and Dorian didn’t like it, not one bit. “Deven tends to keep to himself for the most part. I hear he actually told you about his siblings.”

“You mean to say he hadn’t mentioned anything to you?” Dorian teased with a pat to Varric’s shoulder. “Jealous, are we?”

“As a story writer, absolutely. I think last time we spoke, he mentioned that he found you – oh shit.” A shadow swam overhead and blanketed the land. Dorian looked up in time to see the tail end of a dragon crash into the ruins at the edge of the hillside. Just below the dragon’s shadow as she landed, Dorian could see two specs with bright glints at their sides.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Varric took off at a run with Dorian at his heels.


	4. Horripilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian doesn't like people getting under his skin.

When he later recalled the incident, Dorian would have told it as if it had all been plan, that they all knew the Inquisitor _needed_ dragon’s blood for his training, that it was _necessary_ and not at all the bedlam and disorder it had thrown at them. _Later_. At this very moment, Dorian was prepared to maim the Inquisitor personally – if they survived this little moment of madness.

Varric and Dorian had reached the battlefield with little more than half a breath in their lungs. Blackwall and Trevelyn, somehow, kept the dragon on the constant move, her legs and wings bleeding from their efforts. Dorian yelled for the Inquisitor, hoping the man would come to reason and draw away from the fight. The only one who had apparently heard him was the Warden, and Blackwall tossed him a most desperate look before diving back into the fray with his leader.

Dorian barely threw up the barriers with enough time to dodge a spat lance of fire and electrical charge. Blackwall roared and smacked his blade against the beast’s skull, for all the good it did. The blade rang as it bounced off the dragon’s mighty scales and only Varric’s tossed grenade of smoke allowed the warrior an escape from snapping jaws.

“I’m going to kill him,” Dorian snarled as he shot a path of ice up the dragon’s closest leg, “what was he thinking?”

“I don’t think he was!” Varric gasped, leaping away as a spattering arrows managed to catch the dragon in the soft part of her eye. She blustered angrily and her tail whipped out, with Trevelyn’s sword latched to one end. The force of the swing sent their Inquisitor flying into a nearby pillar of stone, his metal armor ringing like shattered glass as he landed.

Fear flared through Dorian’s gut and with a vicious pull of his staff, a pillar of ice struck down on the dragon’s neck. Blackwall wasted no time taking a charge to her exposed throat. Dorian hastened over to the toppled pillar as Varric remained with Blackwall, spearing the dragon every time she opened her mouth.

With his heart in his throat, Dorian reached the mess of stones and could see a few shining bits of the Herald’s armor. Energy flowed through his body and he tossed away the rubble. Trevelyn was out cold once Dorian cleared the debris from his face. The hair along the back of his neck pricked and Dorian dropped to his knees. Varric and Blackwall jogged up behind him and their ragged breathing only frustrated Dorian further.

“Don’t move him.” Blackwall muttered as he knelt beside Dorian.

“I know better than to move someone with a possible neck injury.” Dorian growled, eyes flashing. Varric cleared his throat and stepped between them gently.

“Easy now, Sparkles. Let’s try a poultice before we start pointing fingers.” Varric handed one to Blackwall and Dorian attempted to help with moving their Herald. Varric hissed through his teeth, “We’re going to have to set up camp. We’re too far from the other one to move him. I’ll –”

“You’re an archer.” Blackwall muttered once he was finished with removing Trevelyn’s chest plate. “Let me finish this and walk back to the other camp. They’ll come help us. Can’t send you out, there’s still some bandits we haven’t eliminated.”

Varric snorted, but gave a nod. “Sparkles and I will stay. Good hunting.” Blackwall handed the rest of the poultice to Dorian and returned to the dead dragon to retrieve his blade and shield. Dorian finished out with the poultice and adjusted Trevelyn’s weight against a slanted stone to keep him stable.

Dorian exhaled violently and set about pulling a camp together with Varric’s help. They were silent for the time as Dorian collected brush and broken wood from the ruins and plant-life for a bundle to start a fire. The mage through his cloak over their fallen comrade and avoided any glances toward his wounds.

“Didn’t know you had a knack for camping, Sparkles.” Varric attempted, chuckling at the sight of a small nest building around Trevelyn and the fire pit.

“I ran away from home and there wasn’t always an inn or tavern for me to stay the night.” Dorian grumbled darkly. “Despite my stunning good looks, I am a bit of a handy-man.”

Varric snickered. “I’ll say, you’ve splinted our darling idiot’s arm, cleaned him up, put the camp up, and now you’re setting a snare.” A strange little smirk came over the dwarf’s face. “Does Deven know you can do any of this?”

Dorian shot Varric a scathing look. “Don’t you dare. I can’t have my reputation put to the mud for such trifle things.”

“Trifle?” Varric teased, his grin a beam in the setting sun. “On the contrary, I think you’d have our dear Herald in a swoon.”

There was a soft sound of shifting and then a grunt, “Who’s… who’s swooning?”

“You are, you knucklehead.” Varric choked on a laugh. “What – Andraste’s ass, _were_ you thinking? How was running head first into a _dragon_ a good idea?” The dwarf took a seat next to Trevelyn and rested his arms on his knees.

“Did we win?” Trevelyn asked bearily. “I don’t remember.”

“Of _course_ you don’t remember.” Dorian quietly seethed, incensed by the casual nature of the conversation. He threw a few more sticks onto the bundle he had collected and with a wicked snap of his fingers, sparks ignited and lit the dry debris into a blaze.

“Dorian,” Trevelyn began, but Dorian held his hand up and briefly closed his eyes to regain his composure.

“When I agreed to come out with you, _this_ was not mentioned in the _fine print_.” Dorian growled. He took a menacing step around the flame to put it between him and the idiot dragon slayer. The poor lad looked like death warmed over with his bruising yellow skin and splinted arm. The confusion that colored his face made Dorian’s ire waver, but he would not be had.

“I don’t think anyone was planning on a dragon, Sparkles.” Varric was gentle with his interruption.

“That doesn’t matter,” Dorian spat. “The fact that she _did_ appear and _we_ – as a collective intelligence – did not _actively_ avoid her is my concern!” He had done idiotic things in his life, many which had nearly maimed him or brought him close to death, but never something as irreversible as facing a dragon.

“Dorian, if –” Trevelyn attempted again. Dorian felt his breath freeze in his chest from the sheer effort it took not to lunge at the Herald. Instead he paced and drew a heavy hand across his forehead. He was sweating from his tantrum and Dorian was ashamed that his temper was getting the best of him.

“You could have died, you moron!” Dorian barked. “And what then? What would we do in the even that you – your _hand_ is now gone? Pray harder? Hope that perhaps some other Fade-infested half-brained tripe just _drops_ from the sky?”

“That’s digging a bit deep there, Tevinter.” Varric warned.

Dorian shook his head with a firm chin, “Oh, no it’s not. I don’t throw the lives of _thousands_ away for a trophy!”

“I’m sorry.”

Dorian felt his tirade shrivel in his throat. He swallowed and turned to the apologizing Herald. The young man had moved up against the stone and sat as best he could upon his personal power. Dorian winced to watch an otherwise attractive body ripple with seizures of pain and spasms of uncontrollable twitches. Dorian stepped forward immediate and knelt to keep the man against the rock.

“Don’t,” Dorian sighed, and then adjusted the splinted arm so it would not dangle. “You’ve – there’s enough bruised with you as it is. Don’t make it worse.”

Trevelyn’s gaze flickered from his arm to Dorian’s face. “I agree, taking on a dragon is not the brightest of ideas,” Varric’s snort interrupted loudly, but went ignored by the other members, “but I needed more than just a trophy from her.”

“What could you possibly need from a dragon that we could not have gain by safer means?” Dorian stressed, his fingers gripping his knee as he shifted away from the Herald. “What was so valuable as to risk the power of your mark?”

A hurt slipped through Trevelyn’s amber eyes, but the man sighed and it was flushed away. “Her blood… I plan to become a Reaver, and the process requires dragon’s blood for distillation.”

“You’re mad,” Dorian breathed, eyes wide. “The Pentaghast did the same and the end results –”

“Are alarming, I know.” Trevelyn shrugged his only good shoulder. “But with the prediction of this war being my ultimate end, I don’t suppose drinking it for a while will harm me by much.”

Dorian felt his nose flare, “And power is important to you?”

“No.” Trevelyn answered. The young man glanced away and then up to Varric before answering. “But you’re right; the lives of thousands do matter. I alone cannot do it, and I cannot ask my companions to give more than myself. This is a burden I must bear so that others may survive.”

The sacrificial lamb to the slaughter and it flooded Dorian’s mouth like a bubble of bile. He shook his head and glanced up to see a small troupe approaching; most likely Blackwall and some of the Inquisition. Dorian stood and crossed his arms, he could feel his muscles quivering underneath his fingers and he couldn’t fathom why.

“When we get back to Skyhold,” Dorian warned in a low tone, “You will tell me of your plan, every step, every procedure, and I shall decide what you can ask of me. Are we of an accord?”

“Of course, Dorian."

“You’re still an idiot.”

“I know.”

Varric laughed anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Now I'm curious. Does anyone look up the words I use? ]


	5. Desiderium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian knows of a time when the want and the will of a person mattered.

Back at Skyhold, the Inquisitor had been whisked away by his troupe for healing. Dorian was left to lick his wounds within the safety of his corner and it gave him time to ponder over the lunacy that had taken their leader. Dorian still couldn’t fathom how facing a dragon had been the best course of action. There were surely dragonlings they could find, many who could be captured and hunted for the same blood. Did age matter? Did the size of the creature? All questions he turned over in his mind.

The Herald arrived at Dorian’s corner a week after their venture to Crestwood, their original purpose for setting out there having been cut short by the dragon’s appearance. It set them further back in their plans – the Inquisition’s plans – to settle things with the Demon Magister. Frustration and annoyance was left to bubble in Dorian’s throat for all that time.

As the Inquisitor stood before him, Dorian could see the strain the last week of healing had taken residence over the lad’s shoulders. They sloped heavily down from his neck, his face half darkened by bruises and his chin left yellowing. His arm remained secured in a wrap, but Dorian could see no splint. It must have not broken as first believed, but even so, the damage had been done.

“I look like a right mess, don’t I?” Trevelyan’s voice was tired and weary. Dorian had very little sympathy for the idiotic actions that had placed the lad in such a state, but he could appreciate the pressure to continue to strive and work as if nothing was wrong at all. The boy was going to run himself ragged.

“I’d say you look a bit further than that, but no use setting fire to a blaze already in place.” Dorian commented tartly. “What are you doing out of your chambers? I thought the healers told you another week.”

Trevelyan scowled. “The demons aren’t going to wait another week. The Templars get twitchier by the day and I have Cassandra breathing down my neck about what to do and what’s left, not to mention Josephine and her diplomatic adventures, for fuck’s sake –” The Herald’s mouth snapped shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his good arm.

“You really haven’t had a moment’s rest, have you?” Dorian asked lightly. In all the months he had stayed with the Inquisition, Varric had been right; it was a rare thing to see their Herald’s temper. He knew things to be dire, to be fast approaching, but surely the Inquisition knew that there was no sense in driving their leader into an early grave _before_ he won the war.

“I – no, not really.” Trevelyan sighed. “I keep turning over the things you said out in Crestwood and – you were right. I should have given my group a notice, a warning. I’ve been so – no. You were right.” Trevelyan seemed to make a theme to cut his sentences short and Dorian could feel a prickle of dissatisfaction tightened his neck. This was not how he had wanted to receive an apology, if he was due one at all.

“I don’t believe repeating myself will make things any different.” Dorian replied. “But my concerns are still valid, I think. You’re looking for power, that much I can understand, but the way you’ve gone about it –”

“I _don’t_ want it.” Trevelyan interrupted with a snap of his jaw and narrowed amber eyes. “I would have been happy to go about myself with enough strength to wield my blade and nothing more, but I can’t do that. Not with this Magister on the loose and demons pouring out of every corner.”

“What precisely did you plan to do? A Reaver slowly drains himself of his life to be empowered by it. The only difference between it and blood magic is that you don’t use a staff or sacrifice anything but yourself.” Dorian stepped forward with his hands on his hips and a slight snarl at one corner of his mouth, threatening to break open over his face.

“That’s precisely the point.” Trevelyan kept his face level with Dorian, despite being shorter, and held his chin firm. “No one else is sacrificed; no one else makes the decision to whittle themselves away into nothing. The war will take hundreds, and I want to end it as soon as possible.”

“You can’t do that by killing yourself _faster_. Getting to the end of the race and crossing the finish line doesn’t count if you’re dead and your _corpse_ flops over the threshold.” Dorian growled.

“I thought that’s what your Necromancy was for?” Trevelyan teased lightly, but his face was still stressed and his cheeks hollowed.

“Not funny. Clever, but very far from funny.” Dorian whipped back, his hand coming out to lightly shove at the other man’s shoulder, mindful of the injured one. Trevelyan chuckled and raised his hand to rub at the shoulder. Dorian paused and wondered if he had created some discomfort for the younger man.

Trevelyan caught his look. “It’s only stress, Dorian, nothing more.”

“You can’t do this to yourself,” Dorian caught himself and cleared his throat. “You can’t throw yourself into the fire and expect to survive to the other side. You have advisors, ask them for help, you have your group – I, among them, if I may add – you don’t have to noose your own neck.”

Trevelyan laughed, his eyes brightened. “You sound like you would actually care what happened to me.”

“Because –” Dorian’s throat shot with fire and dried up, his muscles a strangle hold. He _cared_ , he did. He cared what happened to their idiotic leader, he cared if the young man ended up dead, and he _cared_ for the young soul if it was snuffed out before its time. A brief moment and Dorian shuddered with realization; Felix would not have his life, he would not watch another live on borrowed time. They mattered.

They _had_ to matter.

“Dorian?” Trevelyan frowned, concerned, and shifted on his feet.

“This Inquisition could not survive without you.” Dorian murmured gently, a collection of sweat at the back of his neck. He swallowed, “Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana… they would continue on, but it would be a losing battle.”

“Because they don’t have the mark.” Trevelyan flicked his gaze away for a spasm and brought his deserted eyes back to Dorian. That _mask_ again, the young man had retreated away. “I doubt anyone would continue on without the means to close Rifts.”

“Because they don’t have your heart.” Dorian interrupted with a pinched mouth. “Nothing is stopping you from packing your things and running. Nothing is keeping you from abandoning all hope and allowing the world to succumb.”

“I’m sure –” Trevelyan shook his head.

“No, you’re not.” Dorian jumped at his words again, irritated. “You _don’t_ know; you don’t know at all whether this undertaking will end it, if the efforts we put into this today will matter _tomorrow_. You just don’t know – and yet you try.”

Trevelyan wrinkled his nose. “Well, what else am I supposed to do?”

Dorian laughed. The boy just didn’t see it, that there was nothing in the world that held him prisoner to the whims of the world. He had the power, the ability to leave it all to rot away to nothing, and yet he remained. There were so many that Dorian knew who would have sought to change the power for personal gain, who would have turned the Inquisition into a sham and take what they could with no return.

“Exactly, my dear, stupid boy.” Dorian wiped at his eye, his laugher a passing smoke. “You can think to do nothing else but stay and help. It’s miraculous that in the face of imminent death and danger, with no guarantee that there’s a happy ending beyond it all… your will and conscious tell you to remain.”

“… I’m no hero, Dorian.” The mask was a veil of ice now, and Dorian could see the once playful murmur in those amber eyes die out. “I can’t stand for these people and expect to be steady. I can barely keep my head above the water as it is. I shouldn’t be telling you this, I’m sorry.” The lad turned to go and before he broke away, Dorian caught the back of his robe.

“You needn’t be.” Dorian replied with a side step to face the boy’s gaze again. “The inspiration you instill does not come from your heroism, though it is part of that – but rather your willingness to stay. Here, take that sour look from your face, it’s unbecoming.”

Trevelyan snorted.

“Best to stop that, as well. Manners, dear boy, manners.” Dorian tapped the Herald’s nose and was rewarded with a flush around the lad’s ears. Utterly charming in addition to his scars and crooked face. Dorian grinned, “You are a confounding, unreservedly irritating young man… and I shall stay the course with you, so long as you deem it worthy.”

“Such an assurance of loyalty should not be given lightly.” Trevelyan warned and a darkened look fluttered at the edges of his mask. Dorian could not ignore the tremor that rattled through his shoulders at the sight.

“Inquisitor, you shall find that I give nothing on a whim. Come now, let’s attempted to give you a day’s rest.” Dorian led the Herald away with a turn of his hand and followed him down the stairs. This would be the last time Dorian watched a young man kill himself in his efforts to fix the world.

The very last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized my computer was auto-correcting Trevelyan to Trevelyn... augh. I will fix those later.


	6. Prevaricate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds his only path is the one that leads to death.

Dorian was never one to shy away from the truth. Not in all his years and that was the main reason he found himself at the arse end of Thedas for the last few months. He had come to realize that though their Inquisitor never lied outright, he often avoided the details of a matter when it pertained to his personal life or thoughts. Deven proved more than happy to share anything that happened on the day-to-day, for the entire world to see, but his history, his thoughts, and his emotions remained a mystery. Ever did the boy play the perfect soldier and the ever-calm diplomat. It was infuriating to Dorian. 

As Deven was left to recover in his chambers, Dorian was alone in the terms of company. Deven was his most frequent visitor and the only one to appear constantly, it seemed. With this in mind, Dorian had left the safe shadows of his corner. Solas wasn’t one to be disturbed in his studies (or in his mood to paint), and Dorian did not see eye-to-eye with Vivienne, so her company was also out of the question. Varric was more concerned with the letters flowing out of Orzammar than the people around him while the Inquisitor was absent, and so Dorian’s next closest choice was the creature: Iron Bull. The beast held his presence securely in the back end of the pub, attractive and menacing all at once. The women stared at the bulging body and the men gave the leader of the mercenary troupe ample room.

“Looking for something, Vint?” Bull greeted him quietly. A soft snort echoed behind Dorian from the Qunari’s lieutenant. 

Dorian’s eyebrow ticked. “Charming as ever, Bull.” The creature remained seated in his place and gently motioned to a chair beside his left. Dorian hesitated for the briefest moments before he took the offered seat with a nod of his head and a graceful turn of his heel. 

“What can I do for you?” There was a grin to the creature’s face that had Dorian’s skin and shoulders itching. It wouldn’t do to be distracted now; he had a goal to accomplish. 

“I hear tell that you’re a Reaver.” Dorian moved on past any pleasantries, knowing the Bull wasn’t one for flower and posture. Not among comrades, at any rate. There was far too much Dorian wanted to know for him to sort through polite small talk.

“Come to test it?” Bull teased with a pull of his teeth. Dorian would never admit his curiosity to the Qunari, despite the impressive visage he provided. If sorely tempted and no idiotic Inquisitor set out to kill himself in the way, Dorian would even go so far as to say it was a complete possibility. 

But Deven still remained. Focus.

“In a manner of speaking,” Dorian replied with a winning smile. “Where would our fool leader obtain the resources to become one?” The Qunari’s nose pinched lightly and one side of Bull’s face puffed as he thought on his answer.

“He already has half of what he needs.” The creature sighed. “The other half he requires is right here.” Bull reached down and pulled up a tattered book and then held it out to Dorian with narrowed eyes. Dorian snapped it up and winced as the cover of the old tome hissed at him when he opened to the first page. 

“It’s the rest of his training, as well as the formula for the distillation of the dragon blood.” Bull shifted in his seat as Dorian skimmed through the pages, his eyes rocking back and forth over the lines. “Once he drinks it, he’s going to have a few hard nights. Dragon’s blood, even when distilled, is no tame nightly pint.”

“Will it kill him?” Dorian paused on a page that seemed to explain why the blood was required. Bull shrugged lightly and did not turn his gaze away from Dorian. 

“It may, it kills some Qunari when they attempt. It isn’t a lifestyle for many.” The creature’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. Dorian gave the Qunari a glance. The creature was every inch a man of confidence, but Dorian could spy a tension that pinched his bare shoulders and gripped his neck. He cares for the Inquisitor. Strange, though Dorian knew better than to have any preconceptions about anyone. 

“He will not be able to stop, will he?” Dorian continued to probe. The unease that settled upon the mercenary was telling. There was a beat of silence between them, for they both understood that Dorian knew the answer, he still wanted the confirmation. Dorian felt a hot gaze trail along his shoulders and down his back from the Lieutenant that sat quietly behind him. 

“No.” Bull answered quietly. “The blood will make him stronger, extend his life… but if he stops drinking it abruptly for more than a few days, or doesn’t wean himself from it gradually…”

“And what of you?” Dorian snarled tightly. “It hasn’t killed you, and do you continue to drink it? I’ve seen you on the battlefield reveling in the same madness he does!” The book was held against his side, but the mage could feel the burn of its cover against his clothing. Bull flared his nose once more and his heavy brow furrowed over his gaze.

“No. Qunari have other methods to induce a reaver’s madness, and besides,” Bull waved Dorian’s question off, “when I turned myself in, I was pumped full of other things. Dragon’s blood was the least of my worries.”

Other things? Dorian wondered, alarmed. Turned himself in? Dorian’s neck burnt from under his skin and his frustration was mounting. A vicious snort ripped from his nose and he paced on his heel. “This book, it explains the distillation process and how to consume it without killing yourself?”

“Read it.” Bull answered. “It won’t kill you, mage. Not like your magic would.”

“This is as bad as my magic, if not worse! Blood magic changes things; it turns the whole of your world upside down insofar that you can’t even tell left from right anymore!” Dorian growled. The book was slipped away into his bag latched to his back. He would have to read it over once he was away from curious eyes. 

“I don’t think our fearsome leader would be so stupid as to become entrenched with dragon’s blood for longer than he needs to.” Bull attempted to soothe the ruffled mage. “He’s stronger than you seem to think, and more willful than half the soldiers and Templars here.”

Vices and greed change all things, Dorian wished to say but didn’t. Instead, he turned with a wrinkled nose and strode out from the pub back to his corner of the stronghold. 

: :

Distillation of dragon’s blood with the aforementioned ingredients ensures a potion that is consumable and non-fatal to any who drink it. It should be advised that once the creation is consumed, the drinker may experience fever, vomiting, dehydration, shakes, hallucinations, or sudden death by way of heart failure. 

Dorian stared at the book that lay in his lap. The warmth of his large chair nestled in his corner of the tower grew ice cold, and colder by the second as life left his limbs. This was what the boy was going to drink, this evil concoction, and for what? None here would appreciate the sacrifice that the young man was going to put himself through and it twisted Dorian’s heart to know it. 

For all the good intentions of Trevelyan’s advisors, Dorian suspected that only Cassandra understood the danger, and even then, only from rumors of her family. Dorian folded the book away and tucked it under his massive chair. He would have a need to speak to Trevelyan first before handing the book over, if he felt inclined to do so, at any rate. 

It was just as well, too, for the very soul he had his thoughts wrapped around appeared from the shadows of the stairwell and stood before him. Dorian peered at the young man and nearly winced. Trevelyan still held himself solid and proud, but there was a new weariness now that echoed from his bones. His shoulders slumped, his neck strained, and his eyes were slowly sinking. 

“May I help you?” Dorian inquired softly, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“You can,” Trevelyan replied with exhaustion, his breathing a bit strained. “I was told that you may have something I will need.”

“My dear boy, no one can replace common sense once it’s lost.” Dorian defended, the book’s presence burned a hole right under his chair. Trevelyan snorted and stepped further into Dorian’s little cove, hovering near the stack of books furthest from him. 

“Dorian.” Trevelyan sighed. Dorian snorted in response.

“I have heard my name said countless ways, Inquisitor. You’ll have to do better than that.” Dorian stood from his chair, the presence of the book under it was unbearable. “And I’ll have you know, now that you’ve probably snuck away from the care of your nursery maid, you haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”

Trevelyan blinked, and then remembrance shown in his amber eyes. “Ah. The plan. I suppose… now would be a bad time to say I truly may not have one?” The smile was sheepish and once again Dorian found that if the situation had not been so deadly, it would have folded him. 

“Deven,” Dorian hissed, stepping closer. “Don’t you dare say you’ve gone into this thing head first without a single clue as to what it entails?”

“Well, I have some semblance of a clue, yes.” Deven shot back, his shoulders tense and pinched closer to his collarbone. Almost instinctively, Dorian noticed the boy’s hands fold and hide behind his back, his stance shifting to that of a Templar at ease from a march.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “A semblance? You were riding all this on a chance that it could work and it wouldn’t kill you?”

“Not quite. I have a trainer, Dorian, and she’s more than capable.” Trevelyan defended, his face going rosy from the heat of the argument. The wandering mages and Templars behind them paused, their curious gazes flickering between the Inquisitor and his necromancer. 

“She cannot control how you will react to this – this madness, Deven. Andraste forbid, if the worse does come to pass, there will be nothing any of us can do to stop it.” Dorian had lanced his way through his stack of books up to Trevelyan’s face and was near close enough to touch noses with the young man. 

Trevelyan’s amber eyes had solidified angrily, “I – perhaps you’re right, I can’t think myself so high and mighty that dragon’s blood will have no effect on me, but what else am I supposed to do, Dorian? These people are depending on me alone, regardless of the troupe that follows me, to save them!” With the absent space between them, the Inquisitor had taken to hissing through his teeth, a slight snarl to his handsome face.

Dorian vaguely realized that this may have been the temper Varric had alluded to so many months ago. A collection of bile and saliva weighted at the back of Dorian’s tongue, but he refused to swallow it. Instead, he squared his back and exhaled, his lips pinched tightly over his teeth. “Trevelyan –”

“No,” the Inquisitor growled, incisors showing. “I have seen enough in the last few months to lose whatever innocence you all seem to believe I had, and I am quite finished with being coddled.” The young man’s hip shifted forward as if to take a step and Dorian was horrified to find he retreated at the movement. He did swallow, this time, and his mouth was clamped shut.

“You were right, I should have informed all of you about what my intent was, and I won’t make that mistake again. It was unfair to expect you to fly into the fight with me, for something that doesn’t directly benefit you.” Trevelyan continued with heat, the flush of his cheeks now reached his ears. “So we are at a fork, Dorian. Stand with me and help me, or step aside and do not hinder me.”

There was a ringing in Dorian’s ears and he could not place its source. The young man was shorter than he was, but at this moment, Dorian felt dwarfed by the tension the Inquisitor projected. He swallowed a second time, his mouth dry and his heart thudding in his chest. The boy was no mage, no Reaver yet, but Dorian’s muscles still quivered with a fight to match. 

This boy will be unashamedly dangerous after he’s finished. The thought had been brief, fluttering on the waves of nervousness that quaked through his fingers and up through his neck. Slowly, a wash of bitter, icy bile coated his stomach. There is no other option he sees, he is determined to end this with only himself to blame. 

Grief gripped Dorian’s throat, but he nodded.

“I shall stay with you, Deven Trevelyan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience!


	7. Amain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian must have the Inquisitor know that our lives are not our own.

**Amain**

* * *

They had waited another week before they attempted to distill the dragon’s blood. Breaker Thram had been displeased to know that Dorian had demanded to witness the act, but a single hand raised from Deven silenced her. Dorian watched intently as the blood was put through its process, boiled out and it turned into a blackened liquid that smelled like scalded copper. The three of them stood alone away in one of the abandoned forges of Skyhold, an appropriate cage in case all went to rot.

“Drink quickly,” Thram instructed with the vial in her hand. “Hesitate and the blood will scorch your mouth.”

“Is this opposed to the rest of his internal organs?” Dorian hissed, annoyed. Deven sighed and took the vial with a long, tired look to Dorian. Thram was not so subtle in her displeasure once more, and glared openly.

“If this all goes wrong, Dorian,” Deven began. Dorian promptly reached over and cuffed the young man at the back of his head.

“It won’t. I hear the stories of the Inquisition’s Herald.” Dorian came around from Deven’s side and took a seat on the bench just before the fire of the forge. Dorian offered the young man a weak smile, “A force to be reckoned with, a man not to be deterred by anything.”

Deven scoffed, “To have your confidence seems a wondrous thing, Pavus.” The boy was avoiding the vial. He swirled it lightly at the bottom of its container, his amber eyes followed it, and his hesitation gripped at Dorian’s neck. Trevelyan had never wished for power, Dorian now understood, and it grieved him to see the boy struggle with it. There was a long moment and Dorian had his breath escape him when the Inquisitor shifted. Deven looked up, his gaze determined, and held Dorian’s flickering glance as he brought the vial to his mouth and swallowed the blood.

Chaos erupted only a heartbeat later.

Dorian watched, the world slowed around him, as the skin beneath Deven’s chin charred like scorched wood and the whites of the young man’s eyes bled red and were blinded. Trevelyan’s body pitched forward and Thram swiftly caught his shoulders to drag him back against the chair. Dorian shot up from his seat and clamped his hand over Trevelyan’s mouth, forcing him to swallow.

The boy’s hands came up to Dorian’s wrist and the grip was demonic. The blood that pulsed under Deven’s skin seemed electrified and pushed against the barrier of skin, demanding release with every beat of his heart. He was vicious as he yanked on Dorian’s hold, but the mage would not relent.

He promised he wouldn’t, and seeing the young man struggle mindlessly against invisible binds renewed his efforts. Dorian held fast, keeping Deven’s feet planted to the ground with his, his hand continued to press against Deven’s lips, growls and howls echoed from behind his fingers. Thram remained stoic and steady, her hands on the boy’s shoulders solid as stone.

Any longer and Dorian felt he would vomit. The boy thrashed and for a brief moment Dorian could feel the scrape of teeth against his palm. Alarmed, he drew his hand back quickly and shifted it to the boy’s throat. Painful seconds passed, but soon the young man’s body convulsed only with gentle twitches and finally slumped back into his chair, eyes closed.

Dorian held two fingers to Trevelyan’s neck and very nearly cried with relief to feel the warm beat of the young man’s heart. Without hesitation, Dorian hauled Trevelyan into his arms and draped him across the bench he previously sat upon. Deven’s skin was drenched in sweat and his lips were a hint of blue and purple.

“He lives.” Thram announced unceremoniously. “Good.”

“ _Good_.” Dorian spat as he wiped the back of his hand against Deven’s forehead. “Is that how it will always be, when he drinks that –that _shit_?”

“No.” Her voice was distant, displaced. “It is only the first drink that is the most difficult. The ones after will be smoother.” Rage scraped within Dorian’s mind at the mention of _more_ and the hilarity that anything so distressingly violent would ever be _smoother_. The boy remained still and unconscious while Dorian kept his back to the Breaker.

“The book said once a month.” Dorian inquired icily. His eyes flickered over his shoulder to the silhouette of Deven’s trainer. He could see her nod and a thick, uncharacteristic snort shot from his nose. “Of course. _Of course_.”

“He will wither away otherwise, mage. You know not the struggle he now faces. It is not meant for all.” Thram admonished. Dorian’s legs trembled with the want to spring from his place beside the fallen Inquisitor and strike the elf across her taciturn face.

“It was never meant for _him_.” Dorian bit back, unafraid of the snarl that threatened the corner of his mouth. “He was the very last soul on this earth this should have been for, Breaker, and I will have none of your comments. Perhaps when he awakes, he has more for you, but as far as I am concerned – your deeds are finished.”

Dorian didn’t grace her with a look back as the light from outside streamed over his shoulder at her exit. With a dry throat, Dorian pulled the chair behind him closer and a shiver of disquiet shook his core as the memory of just a few minutes before flashed through his mind. He swallowed and sighed shakily as one arm rested across his chest and the other was propped on top of it. A hand held his head and Dorian closed his eyes, the lids burned with every movement.

No one looked for them. Dorian wondered if Thram had told them off, to keep them away from a volatile concoction that slept away his pain. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour or so before Deven stirred, but for Dorian, it felt like ages.

“ _Dor’n_ …” The Inquisitor’s voice was thick and pained as he spoke. Dorian shifted his chair closer and his heart pattered jerkily in his chest at the sight of the young man’s hand reaching up and out. Dorian took the Herald’s cold fingers and warmed them in his pressed palms, soothing the young man.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Dorian reassured the lad. “Easy, my dear boy, you’re alive – no need to test it just yet.”

“I… fe’l like shite…” Deven’s eyes opened briefly and Dorian’s stomach roared up into his throat with joy at the sight of clouded amber eyes. He feared their red coloring from before would be permanent, but they had faded out to nothing more than normal.

“As you should, you idiot, you drank dragon’s blood. What did you expect?” Dorian resisted the urge to brush the young man’s hair back away from his sweating forehead. _Keep yourself under control, Dorian. Now is not the time for your daft swooning._

“I thought… it would burn like whiskey, not death…” Deven roughly cleared his throat and rubbed at the skin just under his chin, his other hand still gripped Dorian’s fingers for comfort. The mage shook his head and with a roll of his eyes, he assisted the Inquisitor into a sitting position, his head lopsided and expression pinched.

“Aside from the rot in your stomach, how are you feeling? How are your senses?” Dorian probed gently. He could see the confusion that marred the young man’s face, brief and fleeting. Deven took a few hard blinks and his head bobbed again.

“Bitter, if that makes any sense.” Deven’s voice echoed with gravel and he cleared it again. “The back of my eyeballs burn, for lack of any poetry, the back of my throat feels like quicksand and my limbs…” Dorian still held one of Deven’s hands as the boy tested his fingers. The tips of Trevelyan’s fingers trembled as he drew them into his palm.

“You certainly put on a show, Inquisitor.” Dorian breathed, his mind floundered for what else to say. “You nearly bit me.”

Deven’s eyes grew wide, “Maker, Dorian, I’m –” Then just like that, all evil from the blood, all fear that Dorian choked on that the young soul had been lost to madness vanished. Innocence, true and confused, washed over Deven’s face as Dorian laughed.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been feisty with me.”

“Dorian!”

: :

Cassandra had taken to watching Trevelyan constantly. Dorian only noticed because Cassandra’s eyes would linger down the length of Deven’s back and followed him with every step around the fortress. Every outing they had with Cassandra in the group turned into an awkward dance of hustling Fereldan dogs out at play.

Deven remained oblivious; the rest of them did not. Sera had taken to teasing the Seeker at every opportunity and Dorian was not ashamed to admit that he jumped in on the conversation on occasion. The scowls both he and the archer earned were more than worth it, and watching the tips of Cassandra’s ears heat up was priceless.

Varric and Blackwall were the few of their raggedy group that treated Deven the same, as if he wasn’t brimming with energy or excessive power. The Warden held their Herald in high esteem and hardly questioned his lead. He showed no reluctance to stand back-to-back with Deven and his skill at fighting showed as he could easily maneuver in and out of Deven’s swings with ease. Varric, if anything, treated the Herald with more affection, humoring the young man’s clumsiness with his new skills with gentle pokes and probes reminiscent of an older brother watching his younger brother go through puberty a second time.

Iron Bull, though, appeared to be a contender. Not that Dorian was challenging him in anything, and certainly not for Deven’s affections. The boy was young, naïve, and struggling with his new strength. He didn’t need horned lust-dogs following at his heel. Dorian, he personally thought, was far more sophisticated than to do such a thing.

That didn’t stop his jealousy from making his eye twitch. Really, he needed a distraction and the best one he had found so far was hunting down the Venatori. A flock of them had appeared in the newly visited Exalted Plains, and they had not survived the encounter with the Inquisitor or his tag-a-longs.

The others had moved on, walking away towards camp, but Dorian stayed. He stayed with his arms crossed and watched as the corpses were set on fire by his magic and their remains were eaten away. Deven had stepped beside him, silent and careful. Minutes passed and the smell of charred flesh made Dorian’s eyes water, but he would not move.

“Dorian?” Trevelyan’s eyes flickered between the burning pile before them and Dorian. The mage returned the gaze with a bare flicker of his own before his eyes drifted back. Deven frowned and he focused on the corpses. “These are the Venatori that attacked us at Haven, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps not personally, but the same group, yes.” Dorian answered drily, his folded arms twitched. “I have a duty to make sure that when we cross paths, they shan’t escape my grasp.”

“That seems a little bloodthirsty for you, Dorian.” Deven inquired, his curious nature peered through his words. Dorian snorted and shifted his stance, a hip cocked to one side as he did. He gave Deven a brief, disbelieving look and the Inquisitor held up a hand, “Not the best choice of words, I realized.”

A pause lingered between them and Dorian was surprised that the Herald made no move to leave. The mage sighed, “They killed my mentor.” Dorian finally offered. Deven turned his eyes away from the bodies and raised an eyebrow. Dorian cleared his throat, “Gereon Alexius. Granted, he was the one that led this messy charade of an invasion.”

“He started this?” Deven huffed. “I was about to say who would be desperate enough to do so, but there you have them.” He pointed to the bodies that continued to burn and shook his head. “What drives that need for madness?”

“It wasn’t madness.” Dorian felt compelled to defend his mentor, his hero, even in the face of evidence that proved Alexius was more rotted than any of his ideals. “Not at first.”

“What was it first, then?” Deven pried.

Dorian snorted and turned his chin away. “I hardly know of your family, boy, or anything about you. What makes you think I’ll share this with you?”

“Because I trusted you to kill me if anything went wrong with my night with dragon’s blood.” Deven’s words were soft spoken, polite and understanding. They seared Dorian’s ears and he hated every inch of confidence that laced the Inquisitor’s stance.

“Or perhaps it would have made a good story,” Dorian fired back. “The Tevinter mage kills the Inquisitor, all hell breaks loose! Down with mages and all that rot.”

“You have a point, I suppose.” Deven sighed. Another silence and then: “I confessed my attraction to Cullen.”

Dorian blinked, startled. _Not what I was expecting._

“To _whom_?” Dorian felt compelled to ask. “To _him_?” Deven’s sheepish shrug was all that he got as an answer and Dorian could not stop from throwing his head back and laughing. The Inquisitor could only sigh and wait his expression patient and embarrassingly amused.

“He turned you down, obviously.” Dorian clarified, a finger rub at the corner of his eye.

“That he did, but he remains friendly, which is more than I’ve normally received.” Deven added tightly, his shoulders stiff. Dorian allowed his gaze to flicker sideways and the boy’s demeanor was coiled within his armor. Curious creature, to be sure, though Dorian had always been aware of that fact. Knowing that, Dorian wondered how Cassandra had kept a candle bright for their Herald.

“You know that little secret of yours is nowhere near as damning as mine.” Dorian grinned, charmed by the boy’s attempt to bond. Deven snorted and then shot Dorian a narrowed glare from under his furrowed brow. It pained Dorian to know that Deven’s expression didn’t matter; the boy was a stunning visage.

“Gereon Alexius was my mentor, as all rising mages require one if you are to get anywhere in the Imperium, as I’ve told you.” Dorian started, his throat itched with his words. “We wanted to change it, change the country into something that wasn’t blood-soaked or a melting pot of broken bones of slaves and disease.”

“Lovely,” Deven murmured.

“Hush.” Dorian shifted his foot once again. The weight of his body was now unbearable as he vomited his secrets. Dorian swallowed and tried again; “We thought we had it, an amulet that could… in theory, change time. That we could – yes I know, strange. It was a dream, Inquisitor.” Dorian could feel the heat of Deven’s gaze on his naked shoulder and it curled his nerves.

“It was meant to _only_ be a dream.” Dorian exhaled shallowly. “When we arrived in Redcliff, the rebel mages had been swept into the fighting, but some of them had been against it. Alexius offered them sanctuary in the form of indentured work, and he… planned to use them to further his experiments.”

Dorian dared a brief glance at the Inquisitor, but the boy was unmoved. His hands remained on the strap of his war-horn, nonchalant and easy. Deven’s gaze floated over the smoldering corpses and followed the trails of smoke above them. He was the picture of temperance, the Herald of Andraste.

When had this turned into a confession? “But his experiments failed. The Elder One that hunts you now, he took Alexius’ life in the form of payment for his failure. I was forced to escape, tricked by one of my closest companions.”

“Forced?” Deven quietly inquired.

“ _Felix_ ,” Dorian breathed his name like a prayer. “A young man, perhaps about your age if not younger, and he was Alexius’ son. He was against everything his father was attempting, against the Venatori, against the Elder One and all the vile spit he shoveled as truth.” Felix’s face grinned at him through his thoughts and Dorian’s ribs scraped at his heart.

“He believed as I did, that there was something good that still remained within Tevinter, that if we could – if we could just find it, nurture it, we would have a future worth saving for our countrymen.” Dorian scoffed and kicked the heel of his boot against the ground; the vicious jerk sent a rock flying off into the pile of corpses.

“You loved him.” Deven’s words were bleached, devoid of anything that wasn’t acceptance. Dorian couldn’t cull the rancorous bite of his teeth at the Herald’s words. Why, why did that pain him so much to hear? He hadn’t loved the boy, not as the Herald assumed.

“Loved him in the way one loves a son, a brother. Family.” Dorian bit out, his fingers curled tightly into his elbows. “He helped me escape, as I had been assisting Alexius with his project. The last I had heard of the boy was just after we arrived in Skyhold. He had returned home, supporting your cause to the Imperium.”

“Why?” Deven’s tone finally changed to a strangled disbelief. It relieved Dorian to hear.

“Because you had been running around for weeks on end, helping all those who asked it of you, and never once had we heard of a time you turned away anyone.” Dorian’s voice twisted into itself, asphyxiating his annunciation. “What drew Felix to finally side with you… was the day he saw you stop in your running and talk to an elderly elf who lamented the fact that he could not visit his late wife’s grave.”

Dorian spared a glance to the Inquisitor and the boy had his head bowed, his hands now gripped the war-horn for support rather than casual placement. Perhaps with this, Dorian would have the Inquisitor know of his worth to the world, and how very much he meant to it. Dorian stepped away from the bodies, their flames now quietened and dying. He placed a hand on the Herald’s shoulder and gripped it briefly.

“Every action you take, Deven Trevelyan, is a ripple in the actions we take for you.” Dorian released the shoulder he held as if burned and stepped away.

The Inquisitor remained until only ashes could be found of the bodies.


End file.
